


13 Years

by BananaStickers



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017 NHL Awards, Alternate Universe - The Payment, Carey Price is super queen-y sorry not sorry, Feelings Realization, Friends to Lovers, History, Las Vegas, M/M, Parties, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-18 07:18:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11286366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaStickers/pseuds/BananaStickers
Summary: Part of an AU world, but can be read stand-alone with no background.  Sidney Crosby and Marc-Andre Fleury have been affectionate and flirting with each other for 13 years now, but both have been professional enough not to think about trying anything with a teammate.But now Fleury is a Vegas Golden Knight.A walk through the years, from 2004-2017, culminating in the events in Vegas.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This symbol:
> 
> "/"
> 
> before and after text will denote speaking in another language.
> 
> Unbeta'd and I keep catching myself tense switching like a motherfucker and fixing it. I'm sure something has slipped through. Also, please no sue, thanks.
> 
> ### A Note On the Universe
> 
> This is set in my world / universe, which is extremely similar to our own with a few differences. For chapter 1, you only need to know that there is a secret NHL Goalie Guild in which every member has been given code names known only to fellow Guild members. Carey Price is referred to by his code name of "Showcase" and Braden Holtby referred to by his code name of "McCoy" within this chapter. Also, Fleury & Holtby had a one-night stand, post-Caps/Pens series.

Vegas was beautiful, and in the deep dark of the evening, also tolerable cool. Marc-Andre Fleury swept his eyes across the vista from his view at the top of the Encore. The lights, the palm trees, the cars and the people; and then, further in the distance, the looming mountains, almost startling in their contrast from the Strip. It was still warm, but a nice breeze was blowing. It was almost the perfect view.

Except, Pierre McGuire's face blocked half of it as he spoke. Fleury managed to pay just enough attention to respond with muttered agreements and shrugs in appropriate places. He was just pondering chugging his scotch as an excuse to go get some more - that was a thing some people did, right? Maybe? - when a hand gripped his shoulder.

"Pierre, I apologize, you will have to excuse us," Carey Price was smiling at the announcer from next to the newest Golden Knight. "I must leave soon, but I simply have to catch up with Marc before I do."

"Of course!" chirped Pierre, and Carey steered the other goalie sharply away, towards a mostly-empty part of the roof away from the DJ, dancing, and alcohol.

"Merci," Marc-Andre said gratefully, switching to French. /"Are you actually leaving soon?"/

Carey scowled. "For the last time, just because I am the Canadiens goalie does not mean I can speak perfect French. What did you say - am I leaving? Well, that answer is fuck yes. You think I want to stay around this party too long? When we're in Vegas, and there is a million things to do?"

Fleury smirked. "A million people, you mean. What you want, Showcase?"

Price looked hurt. "You think I can't just want to say hello to my best friend?"

"Best friend? Now I know you want something from me."

"Well, I have a bet going on with McCoy right now." Both men snuck a glance over at Braden Holtby, who was side by side with his wife. They were in a discussion with Craig Anderson and his wife, talking animatedly. Fleury felt his stomach drop out a little bit upon catching sight of the Capital. Braden had acknowledged him only with a nod and a small smile tonight; nothing else. But Marc-Andre couldn't blame him. Here he was with his wife, and the man he secretly fucked last month. Of course Fleury was going to be roundly ignored.

"Okay."

"We have a bet going on around John Tortorella. You know how I feel about Torts."

Fleury crinkled his nose at the name. "Yeah, that he is real asshole. Also, you seem convinced that he wants a dick in his mouth, even though he is married and I cannot catch a glimpse of anything on gaydar."

"Well..." Price cleared his throat, looking around to ensure they wouldn't be overheard. "That's what the bet is about. I was hoping you could help me win."

"And how..." Fleury paused, narrowing his eyes, then widening them once realization washed over him. "Are you suggesting I try and seduce the fucking Blue Jackets coach?"

Price grinned sheepishly. "I mean, it's not like you'll see him a lot anymore now that you're moving out West. And if anyone can seduce anyone else, it's you. Plus, for an older guy, he's not that bad looking!"

Flower pretended to gag. "Oh, stop, Showcase. The answer is absolutely, no way, never, you could not get me drunk enough."

"But don't you want to know - "

"I do not want to know my 'reward' for helping you, no," Marc-Andre resolved. "Don't even tell me. Nuh uh, nope. It could be your entire year's salary and I wouldn't budge."

Price sighed dramatically, both men having spotted Tortorella now, who was alone, without his wife, and talking excitedly with Johnny Gaudreau. "Look at him hitting on Gaudreau. He knows Johnny's the biggest cock slut in the NHL. That could be you he's hitting on instead."

"First off, _you're_ the biggest cock slut in NHL. Second, I guess you should go ask Gaudreau for help, because it will never be me."

"Maybe." Carey grinned suddenly, looking very sly. "I forgot you have your own plans tonight."

"Oh, I do? With who?"

Price deliberately turned his upper body and eyes to a patio lounge off the stage. There was a cluster of people in the area, and most of his teammates. Mario Lemieux was chatting with David Poile; Carl Hagelin and Erik Karlsson were laughing uproariously about something. Connor McDavid was talking Sidney Crosby's ear off, but Sid had his polite smile on, indicating he wasn't invested in the discussion.

Fleury decided to play dumb. "Karlsson's not really my type."

"Oh, bullshit, he's everyone's type. But I'm not talking about him. Your captain. Crosby."

"Sid?" Marc-Andre pretended to look dumbfounded, knowing that Price had of course picked up on the attraction between them. If there was anything that Carey was good at - besides goaltending - it was figuring out who wanted to fuck and who was already doing so.

Price, for his part, just groaned in frustration. "It's so obvious. Like, Mike Condon picked up it when he was with me on the Habs. And then he played with you guys for a couple weeks and he calls me and goes, 'holy shit Carey, it's even worse in the locker room'. I mean, I like Condi, but he's not the brightest guy when it comes to that stuff. So yeah, it's _obvious._ And I know you. You have this weird moratorium on fucking teammates - "

"Weird?!" Marc-Andre put a hand up. "Must I remind you about you and Alexei Kovalev and the shit storm that followed?"

There was a moment of silence, then: "Point taken. Anyway, so I know you, hands off the captain like a good boy all these years. But now he's not your captain. So go get 'im, tiger." Showcase kissed Fleury on the cheek in a friendly fashion, tousling his hair, and before Marc-Andre could say another word, he was gone.

His eyes strayed back to the patio. McDavid had moved off and Sid was now in the middle of Hagelin and Karlsson's conversation. Erik and Sid were wedged tight together and the Swede had a friendly arm slung over Sid's shoulders. Fleury had long stopped being jealous of such physical affection from other NHLers; Sid chose very carefully who he slept with. Karlsson wasn't into guys as far as he knew, but Erik could beg to be allowed to blow Sid and Crosby would probably decline. Besides, how could he be jealous? He and Sid might have been flirting and touching each other for over 10 years, but they'd never even kissed. Sid wasn't his, and he wasn't Sid's.

Next to the patio was the dance floor. Bubbles were coming down from the half-ceiling over top the roof, and people were roaring, gyrating, raising their palms to grab the suds as they popped. He thought briefly about going over, grabbing Sid and yanking him onto the dance floor, kissing him while bubbles floated down around them. Just as soon as the thought materialized in his brain, he let it wisp and float away. PDAs were not in the cards.

Fleury raised his eyes to the inky black sky, the stars invisible due to the bright lights of the Strip. He was suddenly very tired. Picking his way through the crowd, he was just 20 feet away from the exit when a hand grabbed his wrist.

"Flower," Carl Hagelin gave him a sad smile. "It was so weird, seeing you in that jersey tonight. What do you say? One last hurrah? A bunch of us are going out. You should come?"

Suddenly Brent Burns was next to them, grabbing them both. "He's coming along," Burns agreed. "Boys, we are going to have a _great_ night."

~~~~~

And that is how Marc-Andre Fleury found himself dangling like Superman below a zip line above Fremont Street in old Downtown Vegas after an already long night of drinking and gambling. He was just drunk enough to have agreed to be strapped in, but now, as the doors opened in front of him and he realized just how high they were, was not nearly drunk enough at all. He snapped his head to Crosby, dangling to his left. "Was this _your_ idea?!"

Sid smirked, shaking his head and pointing to Flower's right, where Auston Matthews looked entirely too stoked. "Boys, are you _ready?!"_

"No... - whoa!" His mutter turned into a yelp as they were released, eyes screwed shut.

"Open your eyes!" Sid yelled next to him after a moment, and Fleury opened them slowly to look at Sid. Crosby was grinning, delighted, and Marc-Andre's gaze finally wandered to the people below, the flashing casinos, the bright lights. But his eyes kept sneaking over to Sid, who looked for all the world that he could just keep sliding all night, relaxed and joyous.

The ride was over, too slow for Flower's liking and too quickly for everyone else's. Once released, Auston bounced over, hissing about having to do that _again._ There was a 45 minute wait for another ride, and the group decided to hit one of the local establishments while waiting.

"You didn't buy another ride?" Marc-Andre asked Sid as they headed towards a club where Patrik Laine was pretty sure the rookies would be able to grab a beer or two. "You loved that."

Sid shrugged, smirking. "Well, _you_ didn't buy another ride."

"Hell no. You will never get me on that again. But it should not have stopped you."

At that, Sid leaned close, his breath tickling Marc-Andre's cheek. "It's okay. I'm feeling a little... _old_ right now, to be honest," and he flicked his chin in front of him, where the Calder nominees were in a bunch, chatting away with Gaudreau, who also managed to look about 19 years old.

Fleury murmured his agreement, and they were ushered into the back door of a club after a brief discussion with the bouncer.

Marc-Andre Fleury didn't like clubs, either. They were hot, loud, and sweaty, but at least they had a private space, and someone - was it Burns? Karlsson? Kept buying alcohol. So he kept drinking them. He barely bothered to talk - again, too loud - instead opting to people watch as the party raged around them in the club. He was pressed against Sid in the small booth, and when Crosby reached over to grab the pitcher, he steadied himself on Fleury's leg. Not his knee; his thigh, entirely too high up. Flower knew it was not an accident, and returned the touch by brushing his fingers along Sid's hip when pretending to go for something in his pocket.

Tarasenko leaned in, pointing to his watch, noting it was time for the group to get their next ride in, and they made their way back outside. Fleury combed his fingers through his hair, the strands damp from sweat in the hot club. Now he was much drunker than before, being plied with free alcohol and dehydrated from the long night. He stumbled on a chunk of loose asphalt, and Sid grabbed him, kept him steady. "Sorry boys, looks like I need to escort someone back."

The group laughed, encouraging Sid to just call him a taxi, but he waved off their advances. "It's cool, guys. Just wanna make sure he gets back okay. I didn't want to ride again anyway - we'll see you later."

As the group moved back towards the zip line, he caught Hagelin's grin from where he was twisted to glance behind him to stare at the two before turning back and disappearing around a corner.

"Let's step back here," Sid noted, arm still firmly around the goalie's waist. "I already called a Lyft. Should be here any minute."

Fleury allowed his former captain to help him into the car once the ride arrived. He wasn't that drunk, not so drunk he needed help standing and walking and doing basic things. But it was nice to be taken care of, sometimes. Fleury tipped his head back against the head rest, and Sid slid into the backseat next to him, giving directions and pulling out his phone to pass the time. The ride went uneventfully; it was obvious the driver did not recognize them. Marc-Andre had his arms dropped to his side, eyes closed and listening to the road, and cracked an eye open only when he felt a touch. Sid was texting someone with one hand now, the other laying next to his in the middle of the backseat. He traced his finger for just a moment on Flower's palm, the touch light and almost tickling. Fleury felt very sober all of a sudden. 

The ride was over quickly, and they made their way through the Encore to the elevators, heads pointed downwards to prevent from being recognized. Even this late at night, there was a crush of people; Vegas never slept. Luckily, most people were drunk, thinking about their next drink, gamble, or partner, and paid no mind to the two men slipping through the crowd.

The elevator lobby was mostly empty. "Come up and see my suite," Sid murmured in Marc-Andre's ear and Fleury just smirked, giving Crosby a side-eye.

"Preferred league treatment as usual, I see."

Sid rolled his eyes. "If by preferred treatment you mean I paid for the upgrade myself, then sure."

There was a special elevator for the penthouse suites, which required a key card, so once the doors shut with a gentle chime, they were suddenly alone for the first time in hours. No more casino noise, murmured voices, or bodies everywhere you looked. Just a cheerful voice telling them all about what was coming up this month at the Encore, and why they should attend. Fleury jiggled his foot nervously, staring at the metal sheen of the doors. 

He snuck a glance at the captain. Crosby looked relaxed, casually studying one of the casino's ads adorning the walls of the elevator. Marc-Andre had known him long enough to recognize it was an act. He was nervous, as well, and that only served to make the lump in Fleury's throat expand. It was suddenly hard to breath, and he went on auto-pilot as the elevator announced their floor and they moved towards Sid's room.

Suddenly they'd arrived, and the door was swinging open to the penthouse. It wasn't the swankiest, but it was still pretty damn nice, with an amazing view of the city. Fleury found himself drawn to the huge windows, pressing his fingertips against the warm glass.

"This is yours, now," Sid murmured from behind, wrapping his arms around the goalie's mid-section. He sounded grim at the thought. "It was...I mean, seeing you in that jersey tonight...it was hard."

"I know. 12 years we have shared a jersey."

"Longer," Sid reminded him, and _oh,_ yes, how could Fleury ever forget...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure this is obvious, but this is present day interspersed with a walk down memory lane.

**2004**

The silver medal laid on the ground next to Marc-Andre Fleury's bed. It made a strange _thunk_ when it slid out of his fingers earlier and bounced along the wooden floor; he wonders idly if it dented, or maybe chipped a splinter or two off the old wood. His roommate was nowhere to be seen, because why in the fuck would be want to be in the same room as Fleury after that, and Marc-Andre is curled up on his bed, the medal hidden by the blanket balled up in his face.

He heard the door open but didn't move the blanket away from his face. Even when his bed dipped, indicating that someone is sitting on it, he keeps it there, like a barrier, knowing his face is red with tears. If it's a teammate, he doesn't want them seeing. If it's his parents, he _really_ doesn't want them seeing.

"You going to stop hiding?"

Oh, shit. It's Crosby.

"How did you get in room?" Fleury responds, voice muffled by the blanket. Suddenly there's a tug, and a wrestling match ensues for a moment before Sid successfully yanks the blanket away and tosses it across the room. Marc-Andre snarled, throwing an arm over his eyes to hide the tears. "Go away!"

"I asked the desk for your key."

"Why?"

"Because I knew you were in here doing this, and it's not right." Suddenly there is a warm body next to him, and Fleury slid his arm away from his face to peek at what's going on. Sid is laying next to him now, staring up at the ceiling. Marc-Andre quickly covered his eyes again.

"My fault. Is my fault, that we get silver."

"Bullshit." The curse from the normally polite-to-a-fault 16 year old brings Fleury's arm down again. "You know, I screwed up 30, 40, 50 times in that game. But see, when I do it...when I make a wrong move, and get stripped of the puck, and they go down and get a good shot off and you save _my_ ass, most people don't realize it. When I don't get to the board in time and they get a 2 on 1 and you cover my mistake, I don't get pressure for it. You screw up once and it's the end of the world? No. You didn't lose us that game. And I'm sorry, there's going to be people who said you did, but those people are stupid, they don't know hockey. Your team doesn't blame you." Sid turns his face, smiling at Marc-Andre, practically nose-to-nose. "I don't blame you."

~~~

"Longer," Marc-Andre breathed out in agreement, curling his hands around Sid's arms wrapped around him. "I never told you - how much I appreciated that. You. Being there."

"You didn't have to," Crosby smiles against the skin of his neck, right under his ear, and presses a kiss so soft to Fleury that the goalie is almost sure he imagined it. Almost. His nostrils flared for a sharp intake of breath. After 13 years, he knew what Crosby's every touch felt like...except his lips, his mouth. It was a foreign sensation, and he tilted his head for more. 

**2005**

Marc-Andre Fleury was delighted when his team drafted Sidney Crosby. Not only because he enjoyed his time spent with the younger man during the World Juniors, but because it was _Sidney Crosby,_ and if he wanted to win the Cup, Sid gave them a damn good chance of doing so.

Within the first week of training camp, even the next golden boy was not immune to the team's pranks. Fleury watched out of the corner of his eye as Sid came back from the showers, realized his street clothes were missing. Crosby groaned, turning to stalk over to the goalie.

Fleury pretended not to notice until the half-naked, towel-clad center stood right in front of him. "Flower, did you see where they took my clothes?"

He tried to contain his grin and failed. "No. I don't know. Check the Zamboni."

"The _Zamboni?"_

"Just a hunch." He giggled as Sid gave him a one-handed shove, the other still holding up the towel. Crosby leaned close, pretending to be angry, and Fleury could smell the soap he'd just used. Their bare legs brushed against each other as Sid got closer.

"I swear, if I find out you had anything to do with this..."

In response, Flower just poked Sid playfully in the side, causing him to yelp in ticklishness.

~~~~~

 _More._ Sid took Fleury's head tilt as an invitation, attaching his mouth just above Fleury's shoulder, sucking and kissing and nipping. Marc-Andre felt his knees go a little weak. He'd always figured that once the two men parted teams, they'd do this. He figured Crosby had the same unspoken expectation. But he'd expected it would be playful, jokes and teasing and fun. Not this... _seduction,_ that made his knees wobble and his stomach bottom out.

Sid's arms slid down, fingers finding just enough purchase to untuck one side of Flower's dress shirt, allowing him to slide a hand up and inside to Fleury's quivering stomach, splay his fingers flat and hot against his tummy. After a moment, he curled his fingers, nails meeting and raking down flesh, and Marc-Andre had to reach out to the glass, steady himself from falling backwards.

**2006**

"You guys hear the news?" Jordan Staal squeezed into the hotel room, whose door had been propped open. Inside, three teammates - Malkin, Crosby, and Fleury - were all playing on their brand new Nintendo DS systems, with Evgeni sprawled out all over one bed. Sid and Flower were squeezed together on the other, Flower's head resting on Sid's stomach. Par for the course, Jordan thought to himself. He'd been told there was nothing going on between the two; Fleury liked men and Sid liked...whatever?, but it sure seemed that way sometimes.

"What news," Crosby asked, flatly, clearly not paying attention as the three played each other in some sort of competition.

Jordan waited til they were finished - Fleury clearly winning, based on the reactions from the other two - to start talking again. "News says we might be moved."

"We?" Evgeni sat up now, looking concerned.

"I mean, the Penguins."

"To where?" Sid was frowning, glancing at his teammates.

"Dunno. Kansas City is the thought, but maybe Winnipeg or Portland or something."

"I don't want to move," Fleury's DS slipped from his hands as he balled his fists up. Sid gave his side a squeeze.

"Well, there's nothing we can do but...be good, and bring fans into the building. Right?"

Staal sat on the edge of the bed, near Malkin's feet. "No pressure or anything, huh."

"At least we'll be together." Marc-Andre presumably addressed it to the room, but stared at Sid the whole time he said it.

Man, Jordan just did not get those two.

~~~

Sid's mouth moved up to his earlobe, and Flower had enough, was going to go crazy if they didn't kiss soon. Hooking long fingers into Sid's belt, he yanked him against the huge glass window with a _whump_ and fit his body against Crosby's, pressing him to the glass. He had to duck slightly to find Sid's mouth, which crushed to his eagerly. Sid tasted like alcohol and Marc-Andre Fleury felt drunk all over again, but not from the booze at all.

**2007**

Sid was staring down at his phone, just finishing texting a buddy, when his world went dark. He realized quickly that a hat had been shoved onto his head and down his eyes, and he pulled it off to find a grinning Marc-Andre Fleury and a cowboy hat in his hands.

"You're starting the All-Star Game in Dallas," Fleury declared, looking very pleased with himself. Sid turned the cowboy hat over in his hands, as if trying to decipher a puzzle.

"How did you - where did you even get this?"

"I have my ways," came the smug reply, and Fleury grabbed it back from him and once again slid the hat onto Sid's head. This time, he did not push it down to obstruct his vision, instead stepping back to admire it. "Looks good. Maybe you buy real one in Dallas? With boots?"

Crosby pretended to tip his hat at the goaltender. "Would you like that?"

Fleury's smug look got sharper, more playful, and he slid right up next to Sid. "Maybe I would," he replied, coy and flirty, and then abruptly broke the tension by pressing his finger to Sid's nose and giggling. _"Boop!"_

~~~

Their kisses are sticky from sweet drinks and alcohol and dehydration, and Fleury doesn't know where to put his hands. He wants them tangled in Sid's hair and cupping his face and yanking on his belt and grabbing his ass all at the same time, everything all at once. Crosby doesn't share his indecisiveness, one hand curled possessively around the back of Flower's neck and the other gripping his shoulder so hard it might be painful if Fleury was concentrating on anything but Sid's mouth right now.

**2008**

Even after taking a hot shower, Sidney Crosby found it hard to get warm. "The Ice Bowl", they were calling it. First outdoor regular season game in the NHL. Sid had just finished with the media, finding 37 different ways to say what a great time he had and how exciting it was to take a the winning shootout and yes, it was quite different and unique and fun.

But his hands just wouldn't get warm.

"Oh, stop rubbing them together," grumbled a voice from the trainer's room. Flower emerged, fully dressed, and grabbed Sid's hands, puffing hot air on them and pulling them between his own. He was smiling, but his eyes were sad.

"Sorry you weren't out there with us, Flower. I know you would have loved to play."

"Well, at least it looks like I might have a chance to some other season, with how well that went. Besides," Marc-Andre's eyes lit up now, genuinely. "Conks played lights out, and I know he was so excited for the opportunity. I'm really happy for him."

"Yeah," Sid replied, his hands still captured by Fleury. _I know you are, because that's the kind of guy you are._ Marc-Andre went back to blowing warm air into the cup made by their intertwined hands, and when that wasn't doing the trick, he shoved Sid's hands into his own pants pockets and laughed. The pockets were warm against Flower's thighs, and his hands finally started to warm, wedged near the goalie's skin.

~~~

They kiss until Marc-Andre is sure he can feel Sid's pulse on his bottom lip, and when Crosby finally tears his mouth away, he's breathing hard. "Alexa," he calls out to the room, "Close the curtains."

Fleury gamely resists making a smart-ass joke about the room and how it's _voice activated._ There is a note to Sid's voice, a tone which he's never heard before, all gravel and heat and seriousness and focus, and he wonders what else he will see tonight from Sid that he has never seen before. Before the curtains even finish closing, Crosby is closing the gap between them for another kiss, but this time his hands fall to the goalie's belt. There's no yanking, even though Crosby's not looking at what his hands are doing; it is a meticulous and precise unbuckling, like Sid has studied Fleury's belt a million times and knows exactly what to do. _The buckle unsnaps, then it's hooked into the fifth eyelet..._

**2009**

"You're with me," Sid, already on the truck bed, holds a hand down to Fleury to help him up. "You, me, and Stanley." Crosby lingers his grip just a moment too long, thumb sweeping across Marc-Andre's pulse on his wrist.

The parade is a blur. Hundreds of thousands of screaming fans, the confetti, the champagne that someone keeps handing Fleury who dutifully pops the cork and showers everyone, again and again. His hand keeps meeting Sid's on the Cup, overlapping and brushing and touching. Eventually the touch turns tacky from alcohol, parts of their white jerseys going see-through.

Sid keeps leaning close to yell in his ear about how he's so happy, how amazing this is, that they'll have to do this every year, and Fleury can only smile, keeping his eyes on the throngs of people who came to see them. He wants to wave at them all, wants to say thank you, make sure they know how much he appreciates it. Only when Crosby leans in again, sticky from dried champagne, and yells, _I wouldn't want to do this with anyone but you_ does he peel his eyes from the crowd to meet Sid's, and grins, and can't stop grinning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, JFC that Player's Tribune article from Fleury :( Go read it if you have not.
> 
> Second, the 2012 interstitial references something that happened in this AU-verse, in that the Flyers (Chris Pronger and Scott Hartnell, specifically) beat and raped Sid after they won that year's playoff series against the Pens.

The belt's undone, and Crosby leaves the pants for now and starts on the shirt. They'd both long ditched their ties, but the buttons on the dress shirt still made for an inconvenient obstacle. Sid pulled his mouth away to glance down as he worked on the buttons, watched the pale sliver of skin get wider and wider as the buttons popped. Fleury still didn't know what to do with his hands, so he reached out to do the same to Sid's shirt, but gets his hands pushed away.

"Let me." Sid's voice was almost a whisper. "I just want to - " Fleury's shirt flapped open as the last button was undone, and Crosby's fingers curled delicately around his ribs with a sigh. He can't seem to finish his sentence, instead opting for a muttered curse and another kiss.

**2010**

There's a knock at the door, and Flower knows who it is before anyone enters. He throws open the door without looking to see and it's exactly who he expected. Sid flies into the room and glomps onto the goalie, and the door slides shut with a soft _hiss._ The two press their foreheads together, laughing delightedly, noses awkwardly sliding together. They're close enough to kiss, but instead just look at each other with big stupid grins on.

"Let me see yours," Fleury exclaims, pulling away to look at the medal dangling around Sid's neck.

"Let me see _yours,"_ Crosby retorts, and they examine each other's gold medals, even though they're exactly the same. Flower traces the bumps and ridges on Sid's medal, the same bumps and ridges he has on his own. He may have not even seen a game, not gotten any playing time, but he was still part of the team, and this medal is still his.

He becomes aware that Sid has stopped examining the medal, and is looking at him instead, and tilts his head up to meet Crosby's eyes. Sid ducks his gaze for a moment like he's done something wrong, almost blushing. "Flower, I'm so glad you're here with me. For this." Then the tender moment is gone, and the unbridled enthusiasm is back, Sid grabbing his goalie and jumping up and down. "We _won!"_

~~~~~

Sid dropped to his knees, and Fleury had to bite back a moan, which came out more as a strangled sigh at the sight. His belt was already undone, so Crosby had only to unzip and gently pull at the fabric encasing Flower's hips for his pants to puddle on the floor. He was wearing briefs, but Sid paid them no mind for the moment; instead, he attached his mouth to the inside of Fleury's thighs and sucked a trail of hickeys upwards. Only when Marc-Andre's legs were wet with saliva and thoroughly marked, soft purples and reds already showing through on the skin, did Sid hook two fingers into the goalie's briefs and pull them down his shaking legs.

**2011**

"Pssst!"

Sid was walking through the halls of their still-new arena, heading to his car after a team practice, when he heard the soft hiss. Turning around, Marc-Andre had his head poked from the end of the hallway, beckoning him over.

"Flower?" he asked, confused, while the goalie shushed him.

"C'mere," Fleury whispered. "Want to show you something."

Crosby dutifully followed through a few hallways, down a corridor he'd never much paid attention to before, and then past a series of doors. Fleury stopped at one at the end, on the left, yanking the knob down and to the left. It popped open with a _thunk._

Inside was...nothing, really. It looked like it was supposed to be a supply closet, but it was mostly empty. Fleury pulled him inside and turned on the light switch, which sparked one small, bare bulb above them. He closed the door and looked thrilled with himself.

"Is this...seven minutes in heaven, or something, Flower?"

Fleury just sighed, dramatically and loudly. "Have you ever seen this place before?"

"Nope. Never really knew it was here."

"Exactly."

Sid searched Fleury's face for more clues, coming up empty. "Uhh..."

Marc-Andre made a frustrated noise and looped his arm around Sid's shoulders. "Do I need to spell out everything for you? Nobody knows it's here, and it's locked. Just...really poorly locked, did you see the way I popped it? So, anyway, secret closet that only certain people can open...what are those good for?"

Sid could think of a lot of things that a _secret closet_ would be good for with Marc-Andre Fleury. Instead, he said: "You can hide stuff in here. For pranks."

"Oui! And what else?"

Crosby couldn't think of anything else. Not that was fit to say, anyway, but Fleury took care of that task, draping himself onto Sid almost obscenely and growling. Crosby's eyes widened - here? _Now?_ Fleury let that illusion stand for another second, licking his lips before his expression changed to a sharp smirk, shoving his finger onto Sid's nose. _"Boooooop!"_ He turned before Sid could do anything, rocketing out of the closet.

"Goddamnit!" Sid yelled after his goalie, rubbing his nose. He hated that boop game, mostly because he lost so bad at it, all the time...

~~~

"Goddamn," Sid breathed out, sitting back on his haunches and staring. Fleury knew how he felt; they'd seen each other naked, a thousand million times before, but that nakedness had been functional, showers washing away game sweat. They'd never been able to really study each other, not with media and teammates in the room. And they especially had never been naked and _hard,_ although periodically throughout the years they'd get close to each other, or wrestle, or something, and one - or both - of them would be hard in their pants, and they just ignored it, pretended like it didn't exist. But it did, it does, it exists right now and Sid is staring at it, and Marc is frustrated. He's unsure if he's more frustrated that Sid has stopped touching him, or that Sid is still fully dressed in his suit.

Burning frustration sizzled into burning _need_ as Sid reached out a hand to wrap firmly and decisively around Fleury's cock, starting to stroke.

**2012**

Light streamed in through the windows, and Sid didn't want to wake up. Or, more precise, he wished he was asleep again; his brain burned and itched for something to do and he just wanted to turn it off.

It's November, and they should be playing hockey. Instead, the lockout twists and stretches on, leading to idle hands and boredom.

He just needs hockey. He'll be fine as soon as he's back on the ice. But right now, he's a wreck.

Sid cracked an eye open in the morning light, and Fleury was asleep beside him. He'd been a constant presence throughout the summer as Sid was going through dark times, rough times that made it impossible to sleep alone.

Sitting up a little now, Crosby carefully checked that his goalie was still asleep - deep, even breathing, completely relaxed - before starting his morning ritual. He stroked gentle hands up Fleury's arms to his face, traced and caressed his features, _his mouth,_ that one thing he'd never yet gotten through nearly 10 years. He allowed himself only a few brief moments of touches before yanking his hands back, afraid he'd wake Fleury. What the hell could he say to explain himself if he was found out?

As if on cue, right after he removed his hands, the goalie sighed, rolled over towards Sid and snuggled a little closer. Sid remained tense, searching for any sign that his touch had awoken the man, and only relaxed when he found none.

Marc-Andre Fleury was very good at pretending to sleep.

~~~

_"Sid."_

Crosby stopped stroking at his name, head snapping upwards, but keeping his hand where it was. As many times as his name had fallen out of Flower's mouth, he thought he had heard every tone, every conceivable way of saying that one syllable. But he was wrong; this one had a sharp edge, almost angry, but...not quite. "Huh?"

"I...want..." Marc-Andre wanted a lot of things right now. He wanted to be laying on the bed so he didn't have to worry about collapsing into a boneless heap. He wanted to rip off Sid's dress pants until they were torn to shreds, open his mouth and see what kind of noises Crosby made when his dick was being sucked. He wanted Sid to be just as naked, and on top of him, and inside of him, and...

"Oh." Sid grinned, lopsided and goofy, as if reading Fleury's mind. "So, uh...bed?"

**2013**

"Mr. Franchise Record," Sid murmured softly into Fleury's ear, teasing. Most of the plane was asleep, on their way back to Pittsburgh after beating the Flyers in their first game of the shortened season due to the lockout. And Marc-Andre Fleury had just slid past Tom Barrasso to become the Penguins' all-time winningest goaltender.

"Oh, stop," Fleury hissed back teasingly, half-asleep and slumped onto the captain. The record had not gone unnoticed by the team, who had been calling Flower that nickname all night.

"Well, you are. M'proud of you." Sid kept his voice down so as not to wake his teammates. Fleury cracked an eye open at his seatmate, smiled sleepily.

"It was the best game to do it. In Philadelphia, against... _them._ Fuck the Flyers."

"Fuck the Flyers!" came the agreement behind them from Pascal Dupuis, who obviously had not been sleeping.

"Fuck the Flyers and shut the fuck _up_ Duper," came Orpik's sleepy yell from the back of the plane, and both Sid and Marc-Andre had to clap their hands over their mouths to prevent from laughing out loud.

~~~

Sid had really wanted to do most of the work tonight, to take care of his best friend, but once they'd hit the bed Fleury was a man possessed, even though Sid was the one on top. Crosby tried to push away Fleury's hands going for his clothes to do it himself, to no avail; Marc-Andre was not going to be denied right now, so they unbuttoned Sid's dress shirt together, teeth clicking together as they kissed with a ferocity of 13 years in the making. Their hands tangled together as they went for the same last button, and finally the shirt was off and discarded on the floor.

Fleury was much less meticulous about Sid's belt; their bare torsos were finally crushed together and all Marc-Andre could think about was more warm, bare skin fitting together. The gentle friction of Sid's pants rubbed against him as he yanked and pulled on the leather and it was only when Crosby's touch, slightly calmer, came through to help did they manage to discard his pants and shoes as well.

**2014**

_This place is a hellhole. Be glad you're not here._

Fleury knew there'd be more after that text, and sure enough, a few seconds later, photos began appearing of the sparse dorm room, the yellow tap water, the poorly-designed bathroom. He texted back: _Guess i picked a good olympics to go to eh_

_You did. Vancouver was like the Ritz compared to this. Shea Weber is my roommate and he's having a meltdown right now._

Fleury laughed, trying to picture the giant defenseman having a little girl tantrum. _Sounds fun. But all worth it if you bring back another gold?_

_Yes,_ came the reply. Then, after a long, long moment - long enough that Marc-Andre figured maybe the room had somehow killed him: _I miss you._ Fleury had time to stare at the strangely serious text for only moment before another one came crashing through quickly, like Sid had forgotten to add them, smiley and winky faces. And then another, like Crosby was compensating. _I mean anything is better than Sochi right!!!_

_Miss you too buddy go find some hot fellow olympians and make the best of it,_ Flower sent back, even though the thought made him clench his phone - and his jaw - just a little bit tighter.


	4. Chapter 4

"Hey now," Sid purred as Marc-Andre tried to reverse their positions and get on top, pinning him down with a nip to his collar bone, hips slowly rutting against the goalie's. "You know you can't flip me."

"Do you know how long I have wait, _pour l'amour de Dieu?_ To - _tailler une pipe._ I want to...." Fleury's English often went to hell in high-passion situations. Right after their Cup wins, their gold medal wins, Marc-Andre was a walking dictionary of French joy and exclamations. Crosby was gratified to hear the language here, that he'd stripped Flower's words down to their core.

"Just as long as I've waited," Sid growled back, recognizing the French for 'blowjob'. Crosby had a fleeting thought that he didn't even care if he came tonight, as long as he got to hear Fleury cry out his name, got to hear what he sounded like when he came, see what he tasted like. Marc-Andre's protests died in Sid's mouth at another kiss, and before he could start up again, Sid trailed wet lips down his chest and stomach. He thought briefly about marking the goalie's stomach like he had his thighs, took a second to look at the jutting hip bones and the soft curls down from his belly button nearly hidden by Fleury's cock, a hard line up his stomach.

"Sid - " Fleury whined, before Crosby cuts him off with his mouth.

**2015**

Marc-Andre shook the snow off his boots before he crossed into the Penguins' gym. The holiday break was almost here, and he was looking forward to working with the trainers, getting some drills in that he normally could only do in the off-season. He figured he'd arrive early, do a full foam roll routine. It was early enough he'd expected to be alone in the gym, but of course not.

He stood off to the side, knowing Crosby's superstitions about anyone standing behind him, while he finished his set of squats. Only when he'd re-racked the bar did he let out a showy whistle. "Those squats really show off your ass, you know. Why you here so early? You're scheduled for later, with trainers."

"Figured I'd get some work before that," Sid reached for a towel, shoved his face in the cotton.

"Don't hide your face. Something's wrong. What?" Fleury slid up next to his captain, gently yanking on the sweat towel. Crosby smelled musky and strong, and Marc-Andre had to take a step back from doing anything he'd later regret. He'd always had a... _thing,_ for sweaty men in gyms. Sometimes was a real inconvenience with his chosen career, but you didn't pick your kinks he supposed.

"Just...it's the second coach in like, a year and a half, that we've gone through."

"So? You hated Johnston. He sucked."

Crosby quirked a smile. "I won't disagree with you, Flower, but...when you start going through coaches, then suddenly you're the problem. You're the coach killer. Ask Thrill about that shit. I just wanted to not think about that for awhile."

Fleury thought again about giving Sid his sports psychologist's number, but Crosby turned back to the weights, and Marc-Andre knew that this was all the therapy he'd accept. Sometimes when you love someone, you knew when to shut up, and you knew when to back off and go away.

Marc-Andre turned to go get the foam rollers.

~~~

Marc-Andre's English was gone again as Sid wasted no time, taking him deep as he could, slowly, then pulling off with an audible _pop_ and repeating a few times. Sid was decently fluent in Fleury's language, glad for it because the sentiment of _fuck yes you are amazing you son of a bitch_ just sounded better in French.

Crosby found a sensitive spot by the sound of the goalie's purrs, laid his tongue flat and wet on the underside, the vein pulsing through and just sucked.

**2016**

It was Matt Murray's time to be handed the Stanley Cup, and he looked absolutely thrilled. Marc-Andre Fleury remembered his first time with that shiny silver trophy. Back when he had really _earned_ it, knowing he wouldn't be holding it without his own efforts.

This time was different. It was still amazing, but...different. He was delighted for Muzz, clapping and raising his arms in a cheer for his goaltending partner. But his heart squeezed, knowing he wasn't looking at the Penguins' future goaltender, but now Matt was their today goaltender, that Marc-Andre was standing in his way. This team that he'd fought and bled and agonized over was no longer truly his as the Cup raised with Murray.

Suddenly, a voice in his ear, and he turned to see Sid, draping an arm around him. He was damp with sweat which stuck to Fleury's neck as the arm encircled him. The pure joy on his face was...off, marred by something else. He recognized the scene in front of him as well.

"We couldn't have done this without you! You're always my goalie!" Crosby nearly yelled over the din of the cheering and the family members and the media. He dropped his voice now, making sure not to be overheard: "You're always _mine."_

**2017**

Fleury was a Vegas Golden Knight, but right now his brain couldn't think of anything except the Pittsburgh Penguins, or one Penguin specifically that had his mouth all over him, trailing his soft fat wet lips up and down his cock like his life depended on it. One of Crosby's hands was jerking everything that wasn't in his mouth, starting out at a languid pace and only getting faster. Marc-Andre realized he was somehow begging Sid both to keep going and to stop at the same time; he didn't want to come, not yet.

Instead, Sid pressed firm forearms to Flower's hips to stop the wiggles. He pulled off and glanced up with an amused smirk. "Stop holding back. Do you think this is the only time you're coming tonight or something? I want to taste." Dipping his head, he swiped a wet tongue against Fleury's balls. "You know I get what I want, Flower."

"Can't - argue - with...that." Marc-Andre blew a hard breath out clenched teeth as Sid went back down on him. His hips being pinned to the bed along with a hot tongue and a steady rhythm drove him crazy, toes curling as he got agonizingly close.

"Mmmhmm," Crosby hummed around his shaft, encouraging, and that was enough. Fleury yanked the sheets hard enough to untuck one corner as he came, all hissing French and whimpers. Only when he slumped down, spent and boneless, did he peek open one eye to find a very large smile on Sid's face. "Toldja you'd come."

"You did. Thanks," Fleury agreed, flopping over and pretending to go to sleep, complete with a loud, fake snore.

"Hey!" Sid shook his shoulders, and as hard as Marc-Andre tried he couldn't stop a grin from cracking his lips. He gave up the act, yanking Crosby down on top of him, both men laughing. Fleury rolled them so he was on top, and Sid snuck a kiss in once their giggles had died down.

"You know," he said, "If you did end up just going to sleep right now, if that's what you _really_ wanted, that would be okay. Because I finally got to do that, got to hear what you sound like when you come, and if that's all I got to do, I'd take it."

Fleury swallowed hard at Sid's words, licking his mouth, trying to get some spit going. "What sort of friend would I be if I left this hang?" He groped a hand between their bare bodies, circling his fingers around Sid's length. "You are not only one who has waited. What do _you_ sound like when you come, Sid?"

He felt Sid's cock twitch in his hand, saw the other man bite his lower lip, still a little puffy from the blowjob. "I want you to find out. Can we...can I...can I fuck you, Marc?"

"Oh yes." Fleury kept Sid pressed to the bed, seeing that the other man was ready to flip him over right then and there. "But not yet. Is my turn to see how you taste." He lifted his voice, seeing the protest starting. "Just a few licks. I promise I won't make you come. Not yet. But I want to hear what you sound like when I go down on you, and you won't deny me that."

"Deal. But you have to swing up here while you're doing it." Sid reached down to grab his hip, turning the goalie until his hips rested on Crosby's shoulders in a '69' position. Fleury glanced over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"No fair distracting me."

"You know I don't play fair."

"I _do_ know," Fleury mock-sighed, turning his attention back to what was in front of him. He traced a thumb nail up the vein in Sid's shaft, followed by a flat thumb, touching all the bumps and ridges and smooth shiny areas like he was blind and reading Braille. A wet tongue followed next, hitting all the areas that had made Sid jump a little when they were touched, before he finally closed his mouth over the tip and slid down.

Crosby hissed something that sounded very much like _Jesus Christ_ and _fuck_ mixed together, and then it was Fleury's turn to quiver as Sid grabbed Marc-Andre's hips, pressing his palms out to spread him open and dragging his tongue up Fleury's opening.

"That's not fair," the goalie protested weakly, trying not to squirm as Sid did it again, and again and again, long wet swipes of tongue from Marc-Andre's balls to his entrance.

Fleury fell back to Sid's cock, deep-throating as much as he could to hear Sid's own whines and whimpers, and then somehow it's a competition of who has enough brain cells to keep their mouth sucking and licking. But, as with everything, when Sid wants to win, he does; he knows he's winning as Fleury ran out of words, both English and French, instead falling back on the dirtiest noises that Sid had ever heard, especially as Sid presses a spit-slicked finger through the tight ring of muscle.

_"Je t’implore,"_ Fleury groaned when he found his words again, grinding back on the finger. "More. Now." He heard a cap snap open and whimpered as the finger pulled back, leaving him momentarily empty.

"Shh," Crosby soothed him, "You'll get more in a minute." He rolled his fingers in the lube until they were slick and shiny, and pressed two fingers this time to Marc-Andre, who murmured encouragements and bent down to kiss the head of Sid's cock, as if he was bribing Crosby for more finger-fucking. Sid didn't need the encouragement, not really; he pressed two fingers inside, relishing the noises Fleury made for him, the whimpers when he scissored his fingers inside, the keening pleading when he added a third finger, the absolute sluttiest whines he'd ever heard when he touched Marc's prostate.

"I'm ready," Fleury begged, and Sid gently pulls back and out. He's surprised when Marc-Andre flips around so they're face-to-face, keeping Sid's shoulders pressed to the bed.

"But - "

"No. My turn to lead." There was a fierceness, a growl to the goalie's demand, and Sid couldn't think of doing anything but obeying. To his word, Marc-Andre took the lead, wiggled down until he was hovering over Sid's cock. He reached under him to steady everything, position correctly, and sunk down slowly.

Crosby grabbed ahold of Marc-Andre's hips, helped guide the other man down on his cock until Flower was sitting on Sid's groin, fully inside. "You feel so _fucking good,"_ Sid whimpered, scrabbling at Fleury's hips, dazed from the visual sight of watching himself disappear inside his ex-teammate. He bucked up to meet Fleury as the goalie starts to rock and bounce, fucking himself down on Sid.

It took a moment of hip adjustments and shifting, but then Sid hits _that spot_ and is gratified to hear Marc's cries. He grabbed onto Fleury's hip to keep him still, thrusting his hips up over and over to hit that spot, and all he wants to do is make Marc-Andre come again. Fleury was fully hard again and leaking precome onto Sid's belly, begging in French.

It only took a few more strokes before Marc-Andre came onto Sid's stomach with a whimper, and Sid felt his stomach tighten at the sight, the warm heat of Fleury as he continued to thrust up. "Marc," he huffed, nearly biting his tongue off to hold on just a little further, "Can I - where do you want - "

"Come inside me," Fleury demanded, and he can't believe he's saying it, hasn't let anyone come inside him without a condom since he was just a teenager, but it's Sidney Crosby and it feels so right and it's all he wanted for the past 13 years.

One last, hard thrust up and Sid does come, with Marc-Andre's name on his lips. Fleury flopped back down, ignoring his own fluids smearing across both of their bellies and kissed Sid, swallowing his own name in his mouth until both men were panting and out of breath.

"I'm going to miss you," Fleury murmured next to Sid's mouth. "So much."

"I love you too."

There was a pause, and then Marc-Andre jerked his head back like he'd been slapped, and Sid's eyes opened wide, jaw hanging open. "What?!"

"Oh - I - uh - "

"That isn't fair," Fleury hissed, and he was suddenly angry, _furious,_ at this revelation. "You don't - no, no, _no._ You don't get to be _in love_ with me." He rolled off Sid, stalking over to the bathroom for tissues.

"But - you love me, too. I can tell, Marc," Sid's voice was pitched high, scared. "Everyone can."

"Of course I love you, you idiot." Fleury stalked back over, practically throwing the tissue box at Crosby. "But I'm not...I never let myself fall _in love_ with you. I would die every day if I let myself do that. I just couldn't."

"Then you know. You know I've died a thousand deaths over this. Over you."

"You had the power to change that at any time." Marc-Andre heard his voice shaking, doesn't really care. "But you didn't."

"We were teammates." Crosby sat up, leaving the tissue box untouched, Marc-Andre's come drying on his stomach. "We couldn't."

"That just means you chose team over me. And that's fine, Sidney," Fleury knows it's a low blow to use Sid's full name, sees the other man flinch. "That's fine. I never expected anything else, that you would do anything to mess with team, even when it comes to love. But you don't get to do this now. Because - what, we are across the country from each other! We play each other twice a year! The off-season...too short, too short. You ask too much." He turned away, shaking his head.

"I'll...wait for you."

"No!" Marc-Andre whipped around, wishing he had the tissue box again to throw in anger. "Don't! You do not dare. How long do goalies play for now, 36, 37 years old? So I have 5 more years in NHL, maybe a bit more or less. Too long. You do not wait for me. I refuse it. I will not wait, Sidney."

Sid flinched again, grabbing his ankles and pulling his legs up to his chest. "You can't stop me from waiting, though. Look, I promise - if I find someone else in those 5 years, I'll...go with it. I will, Marc. But just...think about, if you retire first, or me, just...and we're both alone...I'll still love you. I will _always love you,_ Marc-Andre Fleury."

Fleury stopped pacing long enough to level a withering stare at Crosby. "You sure know how to ruin good sex." He slumped over, sighing, when Sid simply stared back at him, expectant and hopeful. "I make no promises. I will think about it." The small smile that blossomed on Sid's face angered him anew, and he started to feel Sid's come trickle down his thighs. "Don't smile. No smiling, don't be happy about this. I go shower now. No you cannot join me."

"Take as much time as you need," Sid agreed, and Marc-Andre wanted to scream, because he can tell that Sid is going to wait for him regardless of what he says, regardless of any promises, he'll sleep alone, reject advances and admirers, and he'll meet Marc-Andre after Penguins / Golden Knights games in hotel rooms, in secret PPG closets and their own homes, and they'll fuck until they can't stand straight, pining for the next time their teams play each other. Marc-Andre's not going to wait like Sid is going to wait, he's going to enjoy the company of others, but somehow he knows when it comes to _love_ that he won't really be happy until that day when he hangs up his sweater and moves in with Crosby and it drives him fucking crazy already.

_"Baise-toi,"_ Fleury mutters, loud enough for Sid to hear, but Crosby just smiled, and Marc-Andre turns away to take the longest and hottest shower of his life.


End file.
